Repetition

She walks the same paths every day. The cafe with its lukewarm coffee, the neighborhood streets worn smooth by her steps, the yoga studio where she bends her body but not her heart. Even the church, where she whispers prayers that rarely take flight. She thinks she is circling the same ground, and perhaps she is right: sameness can feel like suffocation.

But maybe circles widen with time. Maybe her orbit looks different than yesterday's — lifted, if only by a fraction. The air might be cooler, clearer, holding more light than before.

She wouldn't agree, however. The heat makes her restless, the air conditioner makes her shiver, and the past burns bright in her mind, both wound and crown. Against that fire, this life feels dull and dim.

Still, there's something about repetition. It moves quietly, the way flowers push through soil. She calls it nothing, but each circle shifts slightly from the last.

When she despairs, I wonder: what if sameness isn't always the same? What if sometimes it's just life, stubborn and patient, wearing itself into a new season?